Mmmmmm. Synaesthesia sounds totally cool. If it weren’t for the fact that usually if you want to acheive that kinda state even if just for the fun of it, it may cause you permanant neurological damage.
There are two kinds of experiences you have at a hospital. Ones where you’re treated well on purpose, and ones where you’re treated badly for whatever reason.
When you are treated well, it takes extra effort on the part of medical and non-medical staff– because the default is to just treat you like another car in the chop shop. If we are going to be nice to you, it is either because you are exceedingly nice to us, or we are feeling ambitious. To hell with the hospital’s mission statement about friendly care– if you are overworked the way we sometimes are, you’re lucky we even look at you.
There are situations where patients asking for trouble though, and where patients can take it upon themselves to piss off hospital staff in enough ways to guarantee they get the cold shoulder.
Hosptials aren’t like stores– we don’t have to suck up to you, because we’re not after your money. We don’t need your patronage, in some sense– if you leave, we can easily fill the bed with someone else.
The other day there was a patient who actually holds the same job title as I do, but at the Jewish General Hospital. But wheras I’m loggin in perhaps about 9 months at my job, he’s got 30 years as a Unit Coordinator. He’s a patient on one of the floors I’m coveirng. Just so happens that the respiratory tech had to take care of something for him, but was a bit busy, so had to put him on a waiting list. So this patient think’s he’s a smart because he’s worked at a hospital before, and he hooks up the tubing and oxygen and whatnot on his own. Then, he calls me over, starts complaining to me, telling me it’s my job as a Unit Coordinator to make sure that things like this don’t happen.
But I gave him the nod nod, yes yes, okay whatever look. He asked who was the nurse in charge and to see her, so that he could complain to her too. Turned heel when he was stopping for breath.
I told the nurse in charge that there was an asshole in 15-A who wanted to file a complaint against us because we were ‘too slow’ to serve him, and that he went out of his way to fix the problem himself. This wouldn’t have happened if it was the Jewish General, of course.
Now, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people who do something just so they can bitch about how they had to go through the trouble of it. You want to be a martyr?
Hell… If you want to be your own doctor and start treating yourself, stay home!
The doctor was also gritting his teeth at this patient because he was second guessing the doctor’s orders, pretty much asking for a second opinion on everything.
It’s your right to have a second opinion on everything, of course– but you must understand. We’re not talking about life threatening surgery here. We’re talking about small things, like urine pills and aspirin. If you’re trying to be a pain in the ass– well, congratulations 15-A! No one gives a flying fuck when you ring the service bell, we’re all extra busy whenever you ask.
On the surface, it may seem that ignoring a patient’s complaints is kinda harsh, and that we are ‘in the wrong’. But the reality of healthcare is that we do the best that we can, and nobody gets extra treatment. If you’re an ass, certainly, you get ‘special’ treatment– but it’s nothing extra. Our time is precious– we’re not sounding boards.
In this particular case, we don’t care how you do it at the Jewish General. We don’t care how many years you’ve worked. Or how long you’ve been waiting. Everyone waits. You wait your turn.
I was at the Peel YMCA for the first time in a very long time, and I was reminded of why I had stopped going there in the first place. It’s too crowded– and though a room full of muscle is what a gym is all about, machismo is another thing.I had gone to Peel YMCA because that gym, unlike the Chinatown YMCA, has more than one heavy punching bag, and it also has a speedbag (those leg-o-ham shaped baloons mounted on a board to rebound when you hit them). It has been … how long? Several years at least since I’ve thrown punches on a heavy bag for more than a few seconds. I stayed at the Y for about two hours in the room where the bags were mounted.Started off with stretches and warmups to get my legs working.Funny thing is that while I was doing this, some huge beefy guy storms into the room. My guess is that he came in there to impress the girls who were in the room with me… so from the door, he heads straight to the heavy bag, winds up for a huge swing and wham! Slams his fist into the bag.Then i see the white of his teeth as he winces, and i see his wrist go a tad crooked. He may or may not have muttered something in another language. But my impression is that he hurt his wrist, and he hurt it bad.And you know, when you pick a fight with the heavy bag, if the heavy bag doesn’t learn it’s lesson with your first super punch, then you fight dirty– you start beating the shit out of his little brother, the speed bag.Now, the point of a speedbag is more for what it’s name implies– speed. You have to be fast, you have to be controlled, you have to have a good sense of timing to get that ‘machinegunning’ effect like what you see in the Rocky movies. It’s not meant to be blasted away– it’s about rhythm. Speedbag technique isn’t about strength.But since he lost face to the heavy bag, he starts pounding the crap out of the speedbag– and that’s loud.So he’s generally making himself obnoxious when an old man comes in. This old man has got a pair of everlast bag gloves in a dollar-store plastic bag. He’s wearing those old 70s style sweatsuits with a matching sweatband pulling the hair out of his eyes. He doesn’t look tough. In fact, he’s got moobs. But he starts working around the heavy bag, throwing the occasional jab, the straight cross…and i watch his feet. He’s an old guy, and he’s not strong his hits hardly move the bag at all– but watching his feet– the step and slide, the sidestep, the shuffle, the crouch and cross, the lean, the weave– you know that he knows what he’s doing.
When the burly idiot steps off from the speedbag for a moment, the old man goes up to it and then just turns it on. I mean, the old man’s fists move in a controlled combine fashion– and in the room, all you hear is the sound of the machinegun rhythm. I’m remind of hitting continuous sixteenth notes with a double tap each for the ocean-like roll on the snare drums back in marching band. The old man is making it look easy, and you see that the man’s got rhythm– he’s got focus.
The burly man leaves, without looking back. For the next minute or so, the old man doesn’t miss a beat.
I laugh to myself. Look into the mirror, put up my hands, and start to do my drills.
I would have talked to the old man if he hadn’t left while I was on the bag, he made my day.
Untouchable– in a sense.If someone doesn’t care about something, you cannot hold it against them.Like, if you were a golfer, and you came up to me and challenged me to golf, and we played, and you kicked my ass, and you said that i sucked big time, would I care? No, I’m not a golfer. You won’t bother me at all with a comment like that.
When you play against someone in an artificial scenario, like sparring or badminton, the same rule applies but in a subset sorta way. Of course, a sparring partner will not want to lose to you– and he will care about winning.BUT. There are some ways that disturb an opponent more than others.For example. Very simplistically speaking. If your opponent is a grappler, and you’re a kickboxer. It depends on the individual of course– but, if you beat a grapler by kicking and punching him into submission, he might not care as much as if you beat him at grappling– in a sense the old addage “beat him at his own game”.Of course if your game and his game aren’t the same, then you probably aren’t skilled enough to do that.In which case you ‘make him play your game’.But that’s a whole other subject.